


Interlude

by stitch_witch_82



Series: Fortunate Prognostications [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, M/M, Multi, Other, Shakespearean Sonnets, They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), love poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitch_witch_82/pseuds/stitch_witch_82
Summary: The Archangel Gabriel shows up at Aziraphale's shop to request assistance finding a romantic poem for a certain someone.  Punctuality decides to help him mostly for the sake of amusement.





	Interlude

It was a sunny Saturday morning in September, two weeks after the world didn't end, when the Archangel Gabriel threw open the doors of the A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop, and demanded “Aziraphale, how does poetry work?”

“He's... not actually here,” said the person sitting on the counter, who was another angel, an androgynous-looking Virtue known as Punctuality. They had been playing some noisy little game on their tablet. “Nice suit, sir.”

“What the _hell_ are you doing here? And what are you _wearing?_” Gabriel was not impressed.

“Language!” the Virtue exclaimed, pretending to be shocked. “Minding the shop, what's it look like? And... clothes?” Faded blue jeans and a tartan flannel shirt, over a black t-shirt that said WE THE NORTH, to be specific. The tartan was mostly dark shades of blue and green today.

“The trousers are not in the best condition, and the tartan is rather... loud,” Gabriel told them. “And what does We The North even mean?”

They put on an offended face. “We the North is a sports thing. And... it's the Canadian Centennial Commemorative tartan, and I've been wearing it since 1967. Nice of you to notice, sir.” They hastily changed the subject. “Look, I _might_ be able to reach Aziraphale, but he's _definitely_ out of town. For the whole weekend.”

“Oh,” Gabriel said resignedly. “Right. I see. I'll come back later, then.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Punctuality said, hopping down from the counter. “I could probably help you with poetry. No human customers about at the moment. I have yet to entirely understand how Aziraphale organizes anything in this place, but I have the power of the internet!” they held up the tablet, poking at it briefly. “Lots of poetry there. Any particular _kind_ of poetry you're wondering about?”

The Archangel already had a hand on the door, ready to leave, and he hesitated a good long moment before turning back. “Love poems,” he said, stone-faced.

Punctuality was incredulous for a moment. “Love poems,” they repeated.

“That's what I said,” Gabriel affirmed with some annoyance.

“Trying to win someone's heart, then? All beguiled and enamoured and enthralled by... someone?”

“Are you going to help or not?”

Punctuality shrugged. “Sir. I'm not going to ignore an Archangel in need. I'm just confused as to why you'd come to Aziraphale for help. Didn't you try to _kill_ him? Why, on earth or in heaven, would he want to help you now?” they let out a sigh. “But I'll do my best to lend a hand. Try not to leave you all... bewitched, be-bothered and bewildered.”

“That sounded kind of like poetry,” Gabriel said, narrowing his eyes and pointedly ignoring the queries about Aziraphale. “Was it?”

“Basically,” they replied. “Song lyrics, technically, but songs are basically poems set to music. Humans have come up with a _lot_ of love songs. Literally hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions. I... might be able to give you better advice if I know whom in particular you are hoping to solicit the affections of?”

“No!” he exclaimed, glancing around. “No, definitely not. Aziraphale, I might be able to intimidate into keeping his mouth shut. Or at least keep him from telling anyone who _matters_. You, on the other hand, well,” he scoffed, “Everyone knows Virtues are gossips.”

“Fair,” they replied with a shrug and a slightly icy smile. “Well, let's narrow down the search. Would you prefer I find you some short poems, or long ones? I think Aziraphale has an old copy of _Astrophel and Stella_ in the back somewhere but it's over four hundred years old and he'd probably discorporate me if I even touched it. Still. 108 sonnets and a buncha songs...”

“Let's... start with something short?”

“And would you prefer a song, or just spoken word? Angelic singing voices can be very impressive, of course, but sometimes just speaking can carry more sincerity.”

“I... don't know if they even like music. Stick with speaking.”

“Right. Probably for the best. A sonnet, maybe. They have fourteen lines, ten syllables each, so they aren't terribly long. And there are loads of lovey-dovey ones. It's a starting place, anyway.” Punctuality glanced briefly at the shelves, shrugged, then raised the tablet and pressed a button. “Shakespeare had some good ones. Or maybe...” They poked at the screen a bit, _tap tap tap._ “Might help if I know how precisely you feel about this person you're planning to recite poems at. Or what they're like, at least?”

Gabriel looked thoughtful for a moment, then said “Small and annoying.”

“That's not exactly helpful,” they mumbled. “But then, _I'm_ small and annoying, so maybe your... paramour... will have similar tastes to mine.”

“I doubt it.”

“Okay, then,” they said with a shrug, “Well, you obviously care for this person _despite_ finding them annoying. That's a good place to start. Accepting a partner as they are is a good foundation for love. Hmm. Right. Shakespeare it is, then. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds? Sonnet 116? Let's see.”

Punctuality scrolled and tapped the screen, then held out the tablet so Gabriel could see the screen. He stared blankly.

“Well?” they asked. “Read it.”

“What, out loud?”

“If you want to read it _too_ someone, you might as well practice speaking the words. There's more to poetry than just _saying_ it. Tone and inflection are important. The more you remember, the better it'll flow.”

Gabriel looked dubious, but began to read, haltingly;

“_Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit... impediments... Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no! it is an ever-fixèd mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come:  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”_

Gabriel made a face. “Proved and loved don't even _rhyme_,” he said with distaste.

“It's a partial rhyme,” Punctuality explained. “Because of the similar spelling. Poets take liberties like that all the time. Some poems don't rhyme at all. It's the flow of the words that matters.”

“I don't like it,” he reiterated. “Maybe something that's less about love itself and more about the... person.”

“Well, sonnet 29 is sort of... 'My life isn't great right now but I feel better when I think about you' and sonnet 13 basically says 'I love you more than a beautiful summer day.' That's just what comes to mind from Shakespeare. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's 43rd sonnet is nice too; 'How do I love thee, let me count the ways' et cetera.” They brought that one up on the screen.

Gabriel shook his head again. “I don't think a sonnet is going to work. They're all too flowery. Also I don't want anything that mentions God or Heaven. Or angels.”

“Right,” they said thoughtfully. “Well, Shakespeare is _all_ flowery language. Even the dick jokes. I was going to go to Poe next; you'd like his rhyming schemes better. But he uses a lot of religious references too. Angels everywhere. Rumi? He was a religious man in love with God, but some of his works can be taken as being about romantic love too.”

“Why is this so complicated?” the Archangel practically whined.

“Because poetry was invented by humans,” they replied, “And humans are delightfully complicated creatures.”

“What poems do you like?”

“My favourite poet is Robert Service. He was very clever with rhymes, but unfortunately for you, very cynical about the topic of romantic love. I met him a few times, in the Yukon during the Gold Rush. Pretty sure he was entirely aromantic. Nothing he wrote is going to help you, unless your sweetheart has a really dark sense of humour. Or a love of travel and exploration.”

“I...” he screwed up his face in thought, and a bit of annoyance “Don't know what kind of sense of humour they have.”

They tapped at the tablet a few more times, reading and scrolling and reading some more. “Byron and Shelley are both pretty good, but their poems are usually on the long side. Eh, here's my favourite one by Shelley. This particular one is very pretty, has good rhymes, and isn't terribly long. It does mention heaven once, but, well, see what you think. That one there; Love's Philosophy.”

Gabriel read aloud again;

“The fountains mingle with the river  
And the rivers with the ocean,  
The winds of heaven mix for ever  
With a sweet emotion;  
Nothing in the world is single;  
All things by a law divine  
In one spirit meet and mingle.  
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven  
And the waves clasp one another;  
No sister-flower would be forgiven  
If it disdained its brother;  
And the sunlight clasps the earth  
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:  
What is all this sweet work worth  
If you kiss not me?”

The shop was silent. Gabriel looked thoughtful.

“I think... this one... is good?” he finally said. “I mean, I don't know if they'll like it, but I do.”

“Well that's something, at least.” Punctuality went behind the shop's counter and tapped on a loose pile of note paper, the words appearing on the top page in a simple flowing script. They added another little poem by hand, with a fountain pen pulled from a pocket that looked old enough to match the aesthetic of Aziraphale's shop, then they handed it to Gabriel with a pleasant smile. “Added a little Emily Dickinson poem I memorized some decades ago. Just in case you need another. Anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“No. No, this is... this is good. Thank... you...?”

“No trouble at all. Good luck with your, ah, romantic entreaties.”

“Yes.”

Gabriel left in a bit of a daze, and the door swung shut behind him. As soon as it was closed, there was a burst of laughter from the back room; one voice light and airy, the other slightly hissy.

“Thought he was never going to _leave_,” Aziraphale said, peeking back into the shop. “I think I should close up now, in case he decides to come back.” Crowley followed close on his heels, still hissing mirthfully as they laughed through their teeth.

Punctuality tapped their tablet again, and then grinned.

“Why ever did you offer to help, when you could have just let him leave?” Aziraphale wondered as he peered cautiously out the door before drawing the blinds and clicking the lock shut.

“Four reasons,” the Virtue replied. “One, I might be able to work this as señor Big Boss Archangel owing me a favour now. Two, he would have come back to bother _you_ if I hadn't. Three, curiosity... and four?” they waved the tablet, “I recorded the entire conversation.”

Aziraphale brought a hand to his mouth to cover a giggle, and Crowley just doubled over laughing.

“All of it?” Aziraphale asked.

“From just before he said 'love poems'.” They positively beamed.

“I _need_ that file,” Crowley said when they were able to stop laughing.

“I'll send it to your mobile,” Punctuality assured them.

“I wonder who he's trying to woo,” Aziraphale said.

As if on cue, the little old radio in the back room, which hadn't even been on, suddenly crackled with static, and then buzzed like a massive swarm of flies. Then it emitted a voice that shouted “CrowLEEEEY!”

Everyone went silent. “Yessss, Lord Beelzebub?” Crowley finally said, glancing at Punctuality with a questioning look. The Virtue pointed to the tablet and nodded.

“Thought I'd find you there.” Another static crackle. “Need your help with something.”

One demon and two angels stared incredulously at the radio.

“Of... course,” Crowley said, curiosity in their tone.

“How does one, how shall I put it... How does one go about szzzeducing an angel?”

Realization dawned on the faces of all three.

“Well,” Crowley replied, “I, ah, ssuppose you could try... sstaring longingly for ssssix thousand years until he gets a clue. Worked for me.” They batted their eyelashes at Aziraphale, who covered his mouth with the back of his hand to smother a laugh.

“Not an option,” Beelzebub replied. “Who hazzz that kind of time?”

“Er, then, maybe, tell him you like him?” Crowley suggested. “Or, well, there's always _poetry_.”

Punctuality's eyes went wide, and Aziraphale shook, nearly choking on suppressed laughter.

“Right. Poetry. I'll have Hastur go find me some. Goodbye, traitor. Stay on your toes or I'll have your flesh flayed from your bones.”

The radio crackled again, and then was silent. Aziraphale walked over and unplugged it. They all burst out laughing.

“Tell me you recorded that too,” Crowley said, fixing Punctuality with a wide-eyed stare.

“_Mais naturellement,_” they replied exultantly, in Perfect Fucking French.

“Oh _please_ tell me you aren't going to _blackmail_ anyone,” Aziraphale said, only half joking.

“That would be a very unangelic thing to do,” Punctuality intoned solemnly. “Which is why I'm going to back up all the files in quadruplicate on every internet-capable device I own, and... save them in case of an emergency. You guys should too. In case The Powers That Be ever threaten you. Again.”

“I have it on good authority,” Crowley said, a grin plastered across their face, “That, in the right hands, blackmail adds weight to a moral argument.”

Aziraphale swatted at Crowley's shoulder and gave them a stern look, that melted into a smile after about half a second.

Crowley made a show of ducking out of the way. “Right. Off to Tadfield, then?”

They all carefully peeked out the bookshop's front window to make sure Gabriel wasn't still lurking about, before making their way out to where the Bentley was parked.

“So this is Crowley's car, eh? Pretty.” Punctuality walked around the car, admiring it from all angles.

“I think it might be more accurate to say this is Crowley's _baby_,” Aziraphale corrected.

“She's a good girl,” Crowley insisted.

“1926?”

“Yup.”

“Now,” Aziraphale said, “I feel it is only fair to warn you... Crowley tends to drive somewhat recklessly. And _very_ fast...”

-end part 5-

**Author's Note:**

> If you REALLY want to hear Shakespeare's 116th sonnet in all its glory, look up the video of Patrick Stewart reciting it. Then imagine Gabriel just utterly utterly failing to pull it off.
> 
> That is all.


End file.
